


Blood Lust

by funnierinpylean



Category: Angel: the Series, Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Crossover, Demon Blood Addiction, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1511180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funnierinpylean/pseuds/funnierinpylean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daniel Holtz has acquired a powerful new weapon; a demon hunter that is totally committed to the cause of eradicating Angel. The only problem? His new demon hunter happens to have a dangerous, unpredictable addiction to demon blood. </p><p>What the hell is Sam Winchester doing in Los Angeles?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Lust

**Author's Note:**

> This is an excerpt of a fic I'm thinking of writing. I've got some ideas, but I'd love to hear yours as well. Who knows, I might just use your idea! Comment and let me know what you think.

“I still don’t see why this was necessary,”

A thin, reedy voice. English accent. Sam doesn’t dare open his eyes – his captors think him to be asleep – but he pricks his ears, forcing his foggy mind to concentrate on the conversation. His body feels hot and cold all over, and he can hear the blood rushing through his veins.

He’s never gone this long without a dose from Ruby.

Another voice; this one lower, cigarette-roughened. “You wanted warriors, didn’t you? Well, I’ve brought you one. Pre-trained. Ready to go. You didn’t like the demons I bought for you; here’s something else. All human. Well, mostly.”

“But this one… this one is defective,” says the Englishman, his voice taut with barely-disguised irritation. “You should have let me do the picking.”

“Look, this is my mission just as much yours, and I wanted a horse in the race. This guy,” and Sam is sure the speaker is looking at him, “is who I want going after Angel.”

“You’ve brought me nothing more than an opium addict. He's handicapped. I can’t work with a cripple,” says the Englishman, scornfully.

The pain that Sam’s been fighting off all night returns with a vengeance; violent spasms run through his frame, and he arches off the floor. A broken moan bursts forth from his lips, unbidden, as he rocks through his convulsions. His eyelids snap open, and he sees that he is in a dark, dank, basement. Dim, flickering candle-light fills the room, illuminating the impressive collection of weaponry decorating the walls. The wave of pain crests and subsides, and Sam collapses onto his back; body limp with exhaustion.

His companions have stopped arguing in order to stare at him.

“The addict is awake, it seems,” says the Englishman, with wry amusement. “I’m sorry, not the addict. He’s our _warrior_.” His lips twitch in silent laughter. He’s short and broad, and wears a large traveling coat, which seems to swallow him up. There’s something sharp and cold about his manner; the way he packs a threat into every word, how his eyes shine in the lamplight.

The other person nods absently. He takes a drag on the cigarette he is holding in his hand, and Sam can see that its not a person, its a creature; one that he has not encountered before. It is grey-green in color, limp hair falling down to his shoulders, his face and hands heavily scarred with intricate patterns. “Had to let him dry out, a little. Part of the process.”

Sam squeezes his eyes shut as the room begins to spin. He bunches all the muscles in his body, shaking slightly with the effort, as if daring the pain to return. Judging by the state of his clothes (soiled, torn) and his hair (matted), he has probably been here for some time. There are barely healed gashes in his arms, evidence of where he tore at his own skin in a frantic attempt to drink his own blood. His wrists and ankles are bound to the stone floor by giant, medieval-looking manacles.

“Who the fuck are you people?” His voice is ragged and hoarse, as if he’s been screaming for hours.

“Still, you picked a nice specimen,” says the Englishman approvingly, ignoring Sam. “He’s almost as big as the beast he’ll be hunting.”

“He’s a fighter, too. Strong. Stronger than that girl you’ve been training. And better than that, we can control him.”

The Englishman snorts. “Demon, when will you understand that I want a warrior, not a tool? Slaves are no good to me.”

“I’m going to kill you, whoever you are,” says Sam loudly, propping himself on his elbows, trying to sit up.

“That’s the spirit,” says the demon, addressing him for the first time. “You’ll need that.”

“Where’s my brother, you dick?” Sam spits the words, filling them with as much venom as possible.

“The boy has a brother?” says the Englishman, turning to the demon, sounding intrigued.

“He’s not coming for you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” the demon says, grinding his cigarette stub underneath his heel. “He’s… occupied, at the moment.”

“If you’ve hurt him…” Sam growled, his chest heaving.

“Please, Winchester. I’m doing you a favor. You think he’d want to see you like this? Dean’s better off where he is, and you’re right where you need to be.”

“And where am I?”

The Englishman answers his question. “You’re in Los Angeles. We have a hunt for you.”

“What makes you think I’m going to work with you?”

 “Because, Sam,” the demon says. “I have the blood you need.”

 A tremor of pure desire flutters through Sam’s body, and he falls back onto the mat, shivering with blood-lust. Almost immediately, he feels ashamed of himself; he realizes how ridiculously exposed he is, feels naked. Hot tears prick his eyes, and he blinks them back.

“What do you want me to do?” Sam asks, his voice low, barely audible. His stomach clenches with shame.

The Englishman is the one who speaks up. “You, my boy, are going to kill us a vampire.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it!


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